All it takes is a single Cookie?
by WhoAmI659
Summary: Tony Stark and Steve Rogers don't get along most times. Okay, almost all the time, but still... Steve just wished that he knew what it was that he needed to befriend the man who dons the Iron Man armor. Although, the answer to that may very well come across as a surprise. (Warning: some pre-slash smut/swearing. Nothing major. Start of friendship. Don't like, then don't read.)
1. Chapter 1

**Steve Rogers**

* * *

"Aw, _hell_ no!"

He immediately stilled at the sound of the familiar voice, his muscles tensing at the various implications that, _that_ particular tone could suggest. Presumably, something bad. Scratch that, it could only be something downright_terrible_.

What if JARVIS had clued him in on _another_ psychotic serial killer running lose downtown, or heaven forbid, had Bruce been taken again!? If so, then that would not bode well for the kidnappers, 'cause nothing speaks revenge like a pissed off Tony. Both the scientists had formed some kind of a knit-tight bond, that was built upon mounds of science, chunks of fond exasperation, and a weird form of mutual understanding. A swell of bitter jealousy rose at that thought, before being tampered down forcefully. There was no time for such nonsense. If danger was afoot, then there definitely was no need for petty altercations.

It took Steve only five seconds to bring Captain America to the forefront of his mind. Strategies, and tactical approaches to whatever danger lay ahead, were already flitting through his head. Opening his mouth to question Stark, he was immediately cut off, before a word ever had a chance to come out.

"The damn coffee machine is broken," Tony whined petulantly, and it took everything Steve had, to not just turn around, and smack him upside the head with the spatula. Because, come on. All this for coffee? _Really_?

"Tony," the word was said in warning, a mixture of disapproval and forced patience, intertwining beautifully to create a meaningful scolding. The inventor just glanced at him irritatingly, a boiling emotion filled with slivers of ice, causing for Steve's hackles to rise. Dang, he should have known better than that. Despite Stark's reputation as a "man child", he surprisingly did not take kindly to being scolded as one.

"What?" Tony snapped at him abruptly, "I was _not_ the one who broke it, so you better damn well back off! 'Cause I sure as hell ain't in the mood for your "holier than thou" speech." He finished with a growl. Steve merely raised an eyebrow at him, and Stark turned away in a huff.

A frown marred the Captain's features, and the sudden bout of irritated frustration that was trying to rear it's ugly head, was easily forgotten. Sure Tony had a temper at times, which would soon be followed by a child-sized tantrum that could only be sated successfully by Pepper Potts, and as of late, Bruce, because, let's face it, Steve just managed to only make it worse. But that wasn't the point, the _point_ being that, Stark just seemed downright, truly, _angry_.

"Tony," this time Steve's voice was softer, inquiring, prodding him for an explanation, in hopes of _not_ triggering the life-sized bomb, also known as Tony Stark. Because if he did, then all he could do was run for cover, yell '_fire in the hole!_' and hope for the best.

"Shit Cap, what the fuck do you want!?" Stark whirled on him, jaw clenched, chest expanding and deflating in a fast paced rhythm. Settling the, nearly broken in half, spatula on the counter, Steve flipped the stove off, before venturing closer. His eyes roved over the, slightly paler than usual, tanned face of Tony, taking in the steel edge gaze within his normally warm brown and expressive, eyes. The dark circles highlighted the simple fact that Tony was not getting enough sleep, nor was he eating properly. His hair alone pertained to that fact, as it was disheveled and pulled in every direction, whether in frustration or anxiety who knows, and Steve had to clench his fists in order to fight the urge to comb his fingers through that dark, rich hair. Instead, he forced himself to try and calm down.

Releasing a breath he had not known he was holding, he calmly gestured at the vacant seats along the kitchen table. Nobody's up and about as of yet, it's just himself and Steve. Tony's lips thinned, and Steve knows that he's bordering on the line of suspicious.

"Let's just... talk," he suggested off handedly.

"Let's just not," Tony grimaced, but Steve doesn't miss the way that he's eyeing those chairs.

"Come on Tony. When was the last time we sat down and talked as friends?" And that's a stupid question, because Tony snorted and mumbled an indecipherable "never," that only Steve could hear. It shouldn't hurt, he shouldn't feel as if someone has tightened their hold around his heart and was slowly yanking it out. Because, it's true. He and Stark have never really been good friends. Sure, on the battle field they worked well enough together, if you didn't count the minor hiccups in which Tony disobeyed orders, but that Steve can deal with.

Here though? Where it's just plain old Steve Rogers, and immaculate, billionaire Tony Stark. They're nothing but rough edges and obtuse perspectives when it came to each other, and it bugged him!

But he's trying. Really, honest to God, he's _trying_. Because he _did_ want to get to know Tony. After all, Howard had been one of his closest friends, he at least owes Tony the benefit of the doubt. To try and make some _new_friends, because honestly, it can get so very lonely. This had been the first time in weeks since he'd been anywhere near the man, excluding pending missions. He just needed to find an open window, and perhaps then, he would be able to squeeze into the good graces of this brilliant man.

The silence was broken by a long suffering sigh as Stark relented, and pulled a chair far enough out for him to sit down on. This time, Steve can't hide the smile that tugged at the corner of his lips, and he quickly tries to cover it up by turning away and snatching the last of the cookies from the counter. Once he's facing Tony again, he scratched the back of his neck uncomfortably and practically shoved the porcelain plate under the other's nose. Because cookies always made things better. They provided a, sort of balance, during awkward situations like these. So yes, cookies proved to be the best answer.

"Ummm," Tony's gaze flicked up at Rogers, before flitting down once again and eyeing the oatmeal raisin treats, "Sorry Cap, but no thanks. Oatmeal and raisins do _not_ belong together, not to mention that I may be _slightly_allergic."

"Oh," He replied dumbly, eyes widening fractionally at the prospect of what he'd almost done to Tony, "Sorry."

Tony just waved off the apology. Apparently bored already, he slumped lower into his seat and set his sights on the only viable thing in the kitchen, Steve. Cocking his head to the side, Stark peered at him closely, before humming noncommittally, and quirking a brow.

"So what's with the housewife getup Cap?" A sharp grin marred Tony's features, "no, let me guess, you secretly like pink, and you've come to the conclusion that your manliness just isn't enough to hold up the mantle of Captian America respectively? Thus destroying the hearts and minds of every American alive." This time Steve glares at him, glares at his perfectly cocky attitude, with that perfectly dazzling grin of his. No, he was not dressing up. He had a thing about keeping his clothing immaculate, and this happened to be the only protection available. Tony had no right to make fun of him, even if it proved to be... offsetting and amusing. Suddenly, he's so angry. Angry at this... this _childish_ behavior and... and without thinking, snatches up a cookie and hurls it at him.

He watches in slight horror as the baked good hits Tony smack-dab in the center of his forehead, before plopping down to the ground with a dull thud, leaving a stunned Tony behind. Steve stands there, wide-eyed, and seemingly glued in place. Stark blinked owlishly, and his mouth goes to open, either to yell obscenities, or worse.

_Oh dear Lord, what have I done?_ Captain America doesn't go around _throwing_ _cookies_ at people, for Pete's sake! That just wasn't done.

The crack of Tonys jaw closing abruptly, draws Steve's attention back to realty. Stark's mouth reopens, and continues to move around wordlessly, a foreign emotion swirling in those mysterious, brown orbs of his.

Then, he leans slightly forward, takes a sharp intake of breath, all the while blinking quizzically, and by some miracle, he starts _laughing_. Downright guffawing, and clutching about his midriff as he bends over in a fit of harsh giggles.

Steve's at a lost on what to do about this. He's never trained to handle situations such as these. All he ever had to do was be himself, and smile for the camera. Give him HYDRA any day, and he'd immediately know what to do. Yet, right here, right now, dealing with Tony Stark, laughing away like a maniac. Well, it isn't impossible to believe that he's out of his element right about now.

Slowly though. Slowly, through the sounds of Tony's deep laugh and the warm feeling it brought to the pit of his stomach, he began to realize that all he has to do was to sit back and cherish this moment. To indulge himself on the rare occurrence of being aware that he and Tony are sharing a single moment, unmarked by petty differences and narrow minded thoughts.

"Oh... my... god!" Tony manages to breathe out, "Cap's ditched... the shield... for... cookies!"

Steve, just... deflates. He slumps in a chair of his own, the corner of his mouth twitching, before finally having surrendered into the absurd need to chuckle along.

_This_, he realized with sudden clarity. This, was what life would be like as a friend of Anthony Stark. Sure, the guy would continue to act like a jerk, and most likely, an idiot when it came to self-preservation in certain areas. But still, moments such as these, would outweigh the times were two men brutally collided in their vast pool of differences. Moments, which deserved to be preserved and locked safely away in the hearts of two men, in which the said moment had been shared.

"Aw Capsicle," Tony finally takes a deep breath and straightens to look him dead in the eye. "I don't say this ever, and I'll deny ever saying this 'till my dying breath," he emphasizes this sentiment by forcefully jabbing a finger in Steve's chest. "But, shit," Now he looks more than a little flustered, "Ummm... thanks?," his mouth twists up into a grimace, before he nods to himself in acceptance and repeats firmer, surer, and all the more sincere. "Thanks Cap. A knock to the head; always good for a recalibration." He finishes by rapping his knuckles against his skull.

Steve can't help but feel slightly shocked at hearing those words roll off of his tongue. At discovering something new residing in those deep, dark depths. Instead, of the usual closed off resentment - which, at times, was usually doubled with the projection of harsh hostility, there lies a twinkle of enduring mischief and exuberant joy. Deep, sharp lines, have smoothed out into softer curves that seem to welcome Steve in open heartedly.

Finally. For the first time in months, Steve almost feels... normal again. He's finally discovered the light burning at the end of the tunnel, and hope flourishes so bright and mighty within him. Overpowers him like nothing ever before, and now... now he can take a deep breath, relax, and finally enjoy himself.

The moment is broken as Stark moves to stand, shattering the companionable socialization, and subconsciously ignoring the cookie lying solitary on the floor. Steve can't help but wonder, in amusement, if it will dissapear within the span of ten minutes, either by Clint's mouth or the cleaning bot's broom. He'd vote on the former. The guy had an "as long as it's not rotten" rule, when it came to sweets coming into contact with the floor.

Tony grunted as he rotated his neck in a perfectly loose circle, joints popping without so much as a single hitch. Stifling a yawn, his gaze lazily traveled about the oversized kitchenette.

"Some fresh air sounds good right about now, doesn't it J?" Tony comments flippantly, as he takes a quick peek out the kitchen window. And Steve can't help but notice that Stark's managed to somehow avoid a friendly intervention by Steve himself. The whole, let's-sit-down-and-talk-about-how-you-feel convention has been smoothly evaded. Well, Steve guessed that he _did_ have a hand with that, because of the cookie and whatnot.

"Indeed Sir. Perhaps some sun would bring color back into those, what had you called them? Perfectly sculpted cheekbones of modern society." The AI finished dryly.

"Righty-o JARVIS! Gotta look good for the cameras. They'ed be so_ooo_ disappointed."

Steve holds in a snort at that. Perhaps he should have flung that cookie harder? Picking up the plate of cookies absentmindedly, he tried to bring his mind back to his previous ministrations, before Tony had arrived. Which happened to involve cooking for... himself. Yup.

He expected for Tony to just leave after that. To enjoy his time outside, for whatever reason he wanted to be out there, although some fresh air may do him good, alone. What he didn't expect though, was for the soft touch of Tony's fingers to flit over his shoulder inquiringly. "Care to join me Capsicle. Better to salvage whatever honor and pride you have left by spending time with me, and not in Pepper's apron. Not that the color doesn't suit you, but..." He splays out his hands in a "whatever" gesture.

That's when Steve finally figured out that he'd... they'd... be okay. Sure, there'd be a few rough patches, but he could see that being friends with this man would be well worth it, even with all those devastating hiccups.

Who would of thought that Tony had it in him? That he'd be the one to finally show Captian America that it was okay to let go of the past and dive right into the future? He sure as heck didn't.

And to think, all it took, was a single cookie to the head. Figures. Life with Tony Stark could only end up being one hell of an interesting ride.


	2. Clint is Suspicous of Tony Stark

**Clint Barton**

It didn't take a lot for Clint to notice things. He had a keen eye for basically anything, immobile or mobile, inanimate or alive and breathing. There was no end to his capabilities when it came to sights and sounds, which in turn provided him with a unique weapon; per se, a special skill-set that Shield soon became addicted to. He never missed, and he never overlooked anything, big or small. His life had depended on it more than once.

So that's why he easily picked up on the small signs; the clues that no one else had an eye, or the time, to interpret thoroughly. It could also have been because those clues mainly revolved around Tony Stark; the king of everything that he was, or did. Which, in any case, mainly involved being a jerk.

Well, okay, Tony wasn't all that bad. He'd gotten buddy, _buddy_ with Banner and most recently Rogers. Although Clint strongly guessed that the latter had something to do with the Captain's growing... crush. Steve didn't realize it yet, but anyone with eyes and an ounce of common sense could see the way he was slowly falling for the son of his... former flame. Eh... Poor guy.

Yet, this wasn't what bothered Clint. None whatsoever. It wasn't his problem if the guy had ended up befriending the elusive scientist or the red, white, and blue Captain. What did concern him was whether or not Tony was getting all cozy, cozy with his partner, Natasha Romanov. It wasn't petty jealousy that drove him to become immediately suspicious of Tony. Not even after he'd discovered that they conversed in a language which involved intricately coded messages, all of which were delivered as bitter remarks or haughty comebacks that only they understood. Nor when he'd discovered that Tony and Tash were subject to monthly "outings", which excluded all other members. No, nothing as insignificant and useless as _jealousy_, it was just his protective instincts that had kicked into gear. Clint had a mean streak when it came to the idiots who messed with his "family".

He would never admit it out loud, for if the Widow got wind of this - well, then, it was bye, bye Clint - but he felt as if he needed to watch out for her. She sure as hell could handle her own, and kick ass better than anyone in the field, but he couldn't help the fact that he cared for her. And when he cared for someone, well then, they just immediately fell under his proverbial wing, whether they wanted to or not. He had no control over that.

Releasing an imperceptible sigh, He frowned at the growing ache in his stomach, before finally declaring that food was a necessity his body just could not live without. Slinging his bow over his shoulder, he deftly swung down from the vent in the Living Room and expertly landed on all fours.

Taking a stand and sauntering over to the fridge, he pushed back all previous thoughts of Stark and his suspicions, while swaying his hips to an internal beat that consistently thrummed through his head. Whipping the ham, cheese, bread, tomatoes, onions, lettuce and mustard out haphazardly over his shoulder, he spun on his heel, only to be treated by a sight of perfection.

"Damn baby, you look sexy... come to daddy..." He mused verbally, while simultaneously reaching out for the immaculate build of an irresistible sandwich and setting a single pudding cup with a post-it note that read -_Thor's_; of which Clint readily ignored - on the table. The guy wasn't even on earth at the moment, he wouldn't miss a small treat as such.

"Oh... my... god..." He moaned unconsciously as he took his first bite of his lunch. "You taste... so... good..."

Bite, swallow, then repeat. "Mmm_mhhh_..."

"Careful Clint. Someone may get the wrong idea," a very familiar voice droned on in invasion of his moment.

"Let them," he grumbled back unconcerned "they'd probably enjoy themselves a little too much if you ask me."

He ducked in time to avoid the smack aimed for his head. He watched her out of the corner of his eye as she snagged an apple from the fruit basket, catty-corner to the stove, before plopping down across from him and randomly picking up a thin magazine from the pile that adorned the granite countertop.

A few moments of silence passed on by, before Clint decided that now would be the perfect time to prod her for answers of some kind.

"Soo_oo_," Clint drawled out noncommittally, balancing the end of his pudding spoon along the tip of his forefinger. Tash merely raised a brow at that, before a single "What?" was voiced, which was soon followed by the whisper of the magazine ( "Sidearms 2015" Publication) page turned.

"So," he flips the spoon in the air, before catching it easily, "what's with you and Stark?" He asks plainly.

She doesn't freeze, doesn't even give a goddamn flinch. She merely continued to dutifully digest the information in her article, as Clint waited expectantly. Only after closing the magazine and pushing it to the side, did she turn to face him fully. Lips lax, and eyes as sharp as ever. Nothing in her expression gave away a single thought or emotion, but Clint knew better. He'd learned how to pick up on the telltale signs of her aggravation, her happiness, her anger, and most definitely when she was pissed off far past any sort of redemption. Right now though? Right now she was merely... personifying an air of cool, collective, calmness.

And that shouldn't of surprised him. Because he knows, that she knew, that he'd be the one to know; the one man who had the eyes of a hawk. The first of the Avengers who'd see past the antagonizing relationship that seemingly lied between the two. Of course she'd already assumed that he would see it for what it truly was; friendship. Albeit a twisted and crude sort of friendship, but a friendship nonetheless.

Natasha knew that nothing could ever mimic the bond that she and Clint shared. The kind of partnership she had with him was special in its own right, and was produced under very different circumstances. Because that time... with Tony... during that encounter, it had not been someone who had been trying to kill _her_. No, it had been the other way around. Many, many years ago, she had been sent to kill a six year old Stark.

"Stark and I-" she pursed her lips in a grimace, "we have an, _unusual_, past that involves the both of us- ." She can't help but notice the slight darkening of his features.

"Yeah, I know that Nat. Coulson told me of how you infiltrated his company and all that shit, but what I don't understand is how that affects anything. In fact, with the way he treated you, he should be hanging upside down by his toes right now." No one ever can say that Clint doesn't care. Not with those "mama bear" instincts he keeps locked away.

She cocked her head to the side, and released a sigh through her nose. _Shit_. He thought that she was merely talking about a few years ago.

"No Clint," She looked him dead in the eye, "from _before_."

Now his brow furrowed, and he slowly placed the utensil on the tabletop. Carefully, precisely, as if one wrong move would disrupt the whole universe.

"You mean from before, _before_?" leaning forward, he imploringly searched her gaze. He had a very good idea of her past, and already he could tell that this wasn't going to be a pretty picture.

"Yes," short and precise, just the way she liked it.

"Damn Tasha," he scrubsbed a hand across his face, "how? What-? What happened?" He straightened in his chair and tentatively touched the back of her hand with his fingers, offering some form of comfort; she, of course, let's him.

"Don't tell me that you haven't already figured that out Clint. You know me, my past, what I did." She gently touched the back of his hand in response, before sliding away, "You'll need to talk to him, because this story, it's not for me to tell." And with that, she left, tossing the core of her apple in the waste basket on her way out. The loud thud the object makes with the floor of the trash can echoed about the room as Clint steeled himself for the next move. Talking to Stark himself.

_"Well, ain't this going to be one hellava shit storm."_


End file.
